


The Perfect Place in Existence

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Bartender Sherlock, Barts hospital, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Protective John Watson, Rimming, Smut, Snowballing, Top John Watson, holiday au, twelve in twelve challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the March Twelve in Twelve challenge. Prompt: Coffee shop AU</p><p>A different first meeting. </p><p>On holiday, John meets a beautiful bartender who steals his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Place in Existence

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on the Coffee shop AU. Sherlock doesn't serve a whole lot of coffeee...there's more interesting things to do! :)

John had been sitting at the bar, sipping a whiskey on ice, reading, when he heard him. Loud, obnoxious, certainly a rich kid on a holiday paid for by his rich dad - he was harassing the bartender, ogling and leering.

“You may want to stop that, son,” John only said, putting away his newspaper, setting down his glass. Looked straight at him.

“I didn’t ask for your advice, piss off,” the guy spat, laughing from the side of his mouth. John looked: the bartender still worked, eyes down on the counter where he was drying glasses. The kid still stood by the bar, a predatory, stupid grin on his face.

It was just a moment; and John had him by the neck of his shirt.

“You don’t want to put yourself up against an ex-army,” John snarled quietly, right on the kid’s face. “Run along now. Chop chop.”  
He let him go, roughly. Two seconds, and the kid had disappeared.

“Happens every time,” John heard a deep voice say. It came from the bartender; he was still drying glasses, gaze still down – but when he glanced up, for a half-second, his eyes were blue-turquoise, and beautiful.

John glanced back for half a second, too, and then took a sip of his whiskey, and smiled.

“Doesn’t mean it should.”

He could feel the bartender’s eyes on him. His confusion. John was sure it didn’t really happen that someone, a stranger, stood up for him like that. His eyes stayed on John, hands frozen around the tumbler they had been busy drying, ebony curls dancing in the afternoon breeze, in contrast with the steel of his face.

“If you think I’ll sleep with you..“

John laughed, amused.

“Not at all.” He finished his whiskey in one sip, set the glass back down. “Just trying to do the right thing.”

With one last glance at the bartender and a smirk on his face, John waved his hand once, and left.

 

~~~

 

The music was quite intolerable; a ridiculous mix of South American and reggae that grated on his ears. John sat on one of the benches furthest away from the bar and closest to the beach; there, he could hear the waves, the seagulls screeching for food. The late-afternoon sun still warmed the skin but didn’t burn it; at least that was pleasant.

 _I had to win a holiday and go all the way to the other side of the world, just to be as annoyed as I was back home,_ John thought, and laughed at himself.

“Not enjoying the entertainment?”, someone asked. John recognised the voice instantly; he grinned a little, looked up. The bartender from that morning stood by his bench; breeze in his hair, sun in his eyes, turning them aquamarine. _The colour of the ocean._ John glanced at his white shirt, several buttons open on the chest, and smiled some more.

“Good deduction.”

The breeze blew a few curls over his forehead, over his eyes, and the bartender stroked them away with a hand.

“Well. This racket is insufferable to me, as well,” he said, and John chuckled. “I don’t choose the music, alas. But can I bring you something to drink?”

John nodded. “Whiskey sour?”

The bartender smiled – the first smile John had seen on him. “You know, we’re a coffee shop, really.”

“Don’t like coffee in cocktails,” John said, shielding his eyes with a hand, stealing another glance at that ocean-blue gaze. Challenging. The bartender gave him another side-smile – _cheeky_ – and nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

 

 

~~~

 

The next day had been almost pleasant. John slept in – how strange to get up at eleven! – went for a swim. Lathered himself up in sunscreen, because his skin was not pale for British standards but was certainly way too pale for the Tropics, and lay on a lounger under the sun for a couple of hours in the afternoon.

By evening, he was newly bored, and wondering where the bartender might be.  
The coffee shop doubled as bar for the night; John chanced it, and was pleased to see the bartender back at work.

“Back for another whiskey?” the curly-haired, blue-eyed man said.

John stood by the side of the counter, smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Actually, I was wondering what time you’ll be done with work.” He saw the bartender smile – John swore he looked bashful – as he poured drinks; John cleared his throat.

“And I’ll have a drink while I wait.”

 

 

~~~

The bartender’s white shirt was open on his chest again. John felt his gaze linger on the light gold skin underneath, even though it was night-time and all he saw was shadows. He wished for a few more buttons undone; he took another drink of his whiskey, let it cool his throat.

The bartender sat with him on one of the benches, the one nearest the beach. The waves crashed lazily on the sand; the obnoxious music was far away enough that the sea and the crickets were louder.

“So, is it true?” the bartender said, playing with his own glass, looking down and not at John. John planted a hand on the wooden seat in between them, raised his glass to his lips with his other hand. “What is true?”

“That you wouldn’t sleep with me.”

John looked up then. The blue of the eyes had turned indigo now, and bright in the night and in the light from the campfire. The curls, a mass of ebony, and they looked so soft; the profile, perfect, delicate, like the body underneath that white cotton and the black of the trousers, tight, tight around those narrow hips.

“I don’t even know your name.”

The man blinked. “My name is Sherlock.”

And then, John thought, there wasn’t any time to wait. Sherlock wanted it; and whoever was John to deny him.  
After all Sherlock had a really full, really well-defined mouth, and John was dying to see if it was as soft as it looked. Sherlock’s curls were luscious and John had been wanting to touch them; his legs were long, and graceful – and John wanted them around himself.  
He kissed him, and marvelled at how good it felt. Sherlock was a good kisser and his lips really tasted divine; John kissed and kissed until Sherlock was breathless.  
The shirt was still there, and it made John want to growl. He kissed under Sherlock’s chin, the side of his throat, down to his bony clavicle, smelled the night and the sea and the salt.

“You don’t need to know my name, do you,” he crooned against Sherlock’s ear. He brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s nipple, though the shirt – he hated that shirt now – and Sherlock shivered. “You just need me in you. Don’t you.”

Sherlock nodded; and John had to close his eyes. He didn’t remember feeling that way for years; maybe ever. That kind of feeling where nothing mattered but skin, breath, lips and tongue, and legs and body against body; that instinctive, inexplicable desire.

He would have had Sherlock anywhere. But he wanted him there, on that beach; right by the sea and the sand and the sky.  
John was hard as a rock, so hard it almost hurt. Sherlock’s palm wrapped around the bulge there in between John’s legs; his surprised, pleased sudden moan into John’s mouth was the best compliment John had ever received.

“Bet you want me to fuck you even more now that you know how big I am,” John leered again in Sherlock’s ear, his senses drunk and helpless with alcohol and want.

“I’d straddle you right here if I could,” Sherlock said; he was game. He pinched John’s nipple though his T-shirt, squeezed his clothed erection again. “But I know a better place.”

The small hut Sherlock took them to was only a hundred feet away. John had seen it as he moped during the day; as he pushed Sherlock down on the dried grass inside the hut, he kissed him again, bit his cheek, his chin.

“I want to hear you scream,” he growled, hands going to liberate Sherlock’s shirt from his tight trousers. “I don’t care how thin these walls are. Understood?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock had a tub of lube and a condom that he planted in John’s hand; John watched as Sherlock got rid of his own trousers, opened John’s, smiled at his cock as it was revealed.  
John could no longer think. _He’s letting you do this_ , his brain could only offer. _He doesn’t even know your name, and he wants to do this with you._

“God you’re beautiful,” he murmured, gravelly, against Sherlock’s lips as he pushed the both of them down, himself on Sherlock, between his legs. Sherlock’s entrance, heaven as he pushed his fingers in; Sherlock’s demanding kisses were like water to his thirst. John kept kissing as he removed his fingers and pushed in, drank Sherlock’s loud, rebellious cry into his mouth and responded in kind. He paused to look into Sherlock’s black glittering eyes, listen to his ragged breathing. The shirt on his chest was open, and John pushed each side away, gently pinched and rubbed at each nipple in turn, kissing Sherlock on the mouth until the pressure around his cock lessened a bit. Then it was time for Sherlock’s knees on his shoulders; and the thrusts became deep, and powerful. Sherlock cried out loud every time, and John smiled, grunted, chased his own pleasure, until he spent himself inside him with a long groan. Sherlock’s mysterious eyes fluttered closed, then open, then closed again, as John stroked him to orgasm.

 

~~~

 

“I didn’t know you could use these huts like this,” John said, sneered a bit. He let his index finger trace Sherlock’s thigh, up, down, as they both lay on the faux grass inside the tent.

Sherlock half-smiled. “Guests can't. I, on the other hand, have all the privileges.”

John chuckled again, then let his head fall back down on the ground so he was lying flat, clasped his hands behind his head. He could hear the waves still crashing gently on the shore, slower now that it was almost two in the morning; the sound, and the endorphins from a fantastic orgasm, were making him sleepy.

“Wonder how many people you've brought in here,” he mumbled, groggily, eyes already closed. He heard Sherlock shift, then turn on his side, gorgeous lean naked body on display – John had insisted they didn't put their clothes back on.

John opened his eyes, took a good look.

“I hardly think you have any right to give me that sort of cheek, when you haven't even told me your name.”

John laughed. Opened his eyes, pulled a hand out from underneath his head and reached out. “Name’s John.” He brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, let his rough pad pull on them.  
Sherlock definitely had a mouth on him, and John loved it.

“Perhaps next time you should come visit me in my hotel room,” he murmured, suggestively, letting his hand fall back down, closing his eyes once again. His mouth was pulled into a self-satisfied, close-lipped smile – and he could feel Sherlock smiling, too.

 

 

~~~

 

“The most ridiculous thing. Winning a holiday to Hawaii, at work.” John stared at the ceiling, at the shades of white and light grey in the paint. It was noon and he was still in bed; he was getting lazy – he’d never be able to manage life in London again.

“I would not call it ridiculous,” Sherlock said, from his side of the bed. He had his head turned towards John. His eyes were way too intense, John could not bear them for too long. “I’ve never won anything in my life.”

“Mates were all jealous. Wanted to come with! I said I needed to go on my own.” _And good thinking,_ a voice piped up in his head, made him smile. He turned around a bit, felt finally ready for more of that sapphire gaze. And his mouth – he couldn’t get enough of Sherlock’s mouth.

“This accent…” John said, stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s lips – his favourite thing to do – went to brush it down the long throat.

“I’m from London, too. Needed to get away, and my old landlord manages a couple of bars and cafes here in the islands. It was as good a place as any.” A shrug; then, suddenly, Sherlock looked appalled. “Did you think I was putting it on?”

John laughed. “No.” Leaning on his side, he watched. Sherlock was looking back, large blue eyes clear, those long eyelashes framing them, black, and long. His mouth was red, his curls wild and messy.

“I have a girlfriend, back home,” John murmured.

A nod.

“But you didn’t bring her with you.”

John breathed. “No.”

“Well, then.” Sherlock pushed the bed sheet down his body, in one smooth rustle of fabric. Pulled John’s away, now they were both exposed; and straddled him, a thigh on each side of his hips. He bent down, kissed John briefly on the lips.

“I want you.”

John pulled himself up to half-sitting against his pillow, just enough to enjoy the view: Sherlock already lubing him up, making short work of the condom packet; lifting up a little and sliding back down.

“Ah, yes,” John said, growled low in his throat. Looked up, drank in the vision of Sherlock, frowning, body adjusting, thighs tensing and trembling and his hair already sticking to his skin with perspiration. John’s hands moved in unison, went to pinch the small nipples, sharp, because he knew it felt delicious. Sherlock’s head fell back; John went to hold his thighs.

“You’re stunning. You’re incredible. You’re the most beautiful thing,” John chanted, the praise like an enticement, an invitation. “Let me fuck you. That’s it. Let me. You’re mine; you’re mine.”  
Sherlock gave in soon and went pliant, just holding onto John’s shoulders and the bed head and John was free to thrust up, chase his pleasure, wild and wanting and looking into Sherlock’s eyes, and begging him to ‘keep your eyes open, that’s it, keep them open, look at me. _Look at me_ …”

 

 

~~~

 

How quickly holidays went – surely it was a phenomenon that should be researched?

John threw his stuff in his suitcase, half-bored, half-sad. And to think that he hadn’t even wanted to go on this trip. To think he’d laughed, thought he’d have died of boredom having to spend his time in saunas, beaches, spas and pools.  
To think it had been so different from how he had imagined it.

His last night, he found Sherlock on the beach, standing, staring out at the sea, the waves crashing and rolling with a little less of their usual indolence.  
John walked over. The sand brushed soft and silky under his feet. He was going to miss this.

“D’you think the weather’s ever going to change?” John said, looking at the black of the ocean and sky in front of them. The breeze was more belligerent tonight; the palm trees fluttered and shook as if in distress.

Sherlock sighed. “We’re going to talk about the weather, now?”

John kept looking ahead; cleared his throat, frowned. He spoke, and his voice was dark.

“It’s not like I’m happy.”

Sherlock nodded; then he turned, his whole body, and waited until John did the same. He stared.

“You’re going back to her?”

John blinked, inhaled. “I have to.”

Sherlock stared a bit more – his eyes wide, dark blue, almost indigo, the edges red. Then he turned back towards the sea, and nodded.  
John watched the waves dance, pushed around and around by the wind.

“Can we go somewhere? One last time.” He felt like he was begging; he was ready to beg. His hand reached out, found Sherlock’s, and his fingers grasped firmly at his palm. Sherlock looked down, then up, at John, and nodded.

The walk to the hut was brief, quiet. But there was no point in brooding. They kissed the moment they were in, hidden in plain sight, the wind rustling and whizzing around them and their paper-thin alcove.  
Sherlock had looked gorgeous in his dark blue shirt, and sinful dark trousers that showed off all his curves, and the planes of his belly and legs; John had taken the time to slick back his hair, wear the cologne Sherlock favoured. But there wasn’t time for any of that; they only needed skin on skin, warm, and shivering and familiar. John kissed Sherlock’s mouth, then down on his chest and belly and his hips; kissed the bony angles, licked and kissed down the middle, under, over. Let Sherlock watch as he went down on him, licked and kissed him inside. Let him feel the warmth of his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth, though still tender and careful. By the time John was done, Sherlock was arching back on the soft ground, pushing back, wanting wanting wanting.  
John kissed his way up, took him into his mouth; made Sherlock scream. He was hard, so hard, and his muscled twitched and spasmed, and it was too much.

John pulled off, and went to kiss Sherlock’s lips; come and saliva mixing in both their mouths, making them whine. _Fuck, you taste so good._

“You’re going to make me stay,” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth, eyes in his eyes.

“Please stay,” Sherlock said, looking back, mesmerised.

John kissed him, deep and consuming and tasting of desire, and his body, and Sherlock’s body. He wanted to smell like him; he wanted Sherlock to smell like them, _forever_.  
A kick of his pelvis, a moan, the welcoming body beneath him. John was going to cherish this, until the end of his days. He was never going to forget Sherlock’s eyes, wide and changeable and limpid; and his voice, as he begged, ‘ _please stay. Please stay. Please, stay.’_

~~~

 

And it was weird, because London was sunny. It had been sunny for a week now; John had been certainly missing one reason to be moody and upset.

He’d been back at work. He’d been back home; though, he couldn’t do it. He’d come back, spoken to Mary: he could not be with her anymore. He wasn’t that kind of guy. He’d never cheated before, he’d cheated now - it must mean something.

On a break, now, he’d decided to go outside, in the hospital’s courtyard, even though he wasn’t really sure what to do. He stood for a bit, people-watched; his mind tried to trick him, tried to bring back memories, but he rebelled.  
He was _not_ going to think of Hawaii; he was _not_ going to think of Sherlock. It had been certainly fun, but for sure it hadn’t meant anything. For sure, he hadn’t fallen for a breath-taking stranger who lived on the other side of the world.

And so that’s why he didn’t believe his eyes, at first, when he saw Sherlock. When he saw this guy, walking towards him, lean and graceful, and wearing a long dark coat – of course he didn’t believe it. His mind playing tricks.

But then Sherlock had called him – ‘John?’ – and that, that must surely be him? John gaped; then smiled.

“You said you worked at Bart’s. I asked for you. Your colleague said you were here.”

Sherlock was hesitant like John had never seen him. But then again, John had seen so little of him. And yet, here Sherlock was.

“How – why-“

Sherlock looked down, smiled a little. He looked tentative.

“After you left, I thought – perhaps it’s time. No more running; come back to reality, stop trying to escape.” Sherlock looked up, and planted the aquamarine gaze on John. So familiar, now. “Reality - doesn’t seem so bad.”

And the weight of everything almost moved John to tears. Only a few days, only a few words, so much uncertainty – and yet that had pushed Sherlock to leave everything behind and come back, and come look for him; it was brave, and it was crazy.

And it was right.

John realised that he felt exactly the same.

“My old landlord has a place. Above one of his coffee shops, in Baker Street. He will rent it to me cheaply if I run his café, too. I thought it was a good deal,” Sherlock said, taking a few steps closer as he spoke. Until he stopped, right in front of John, his breath and skin only inches away; and smiled.  
“Come live with me, John?”

John had never felt as crazy as he did right then. He had never felt more ridiculous, more off-balance; more _alive_. There was only one answer.

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

The kiss he demanded took Sherlock by surprise, but he caught up, and they kissed and kissed, kissed for the longest time. Sherlock felt so right in his arms that John felt suddenly like the biggest fool for having tried to forget him.

 _You’re going to make me stay,_ his words came back to him; and he was certain, certain, now, that he would stay. They both would.

 


End file.
